


emergency contact

by the_ragnarok



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alpha Martin Blackwood, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Anal Fingering, Canon Asexual Character, Cis Martin Blackwood, Cunnilingus, Double Penetration, Fuck Or Die, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Not Beta Read, Omega Jonathan Sims, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Squirting, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, ace subtype: has sex in heat, fuck or die with consent precautions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27563437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: The bracelet is stainless steel with a colored gem. For most omegas it’s red, with the attendant phone number of their emergency heat contact engraved beside it. Martin expects Jon’s to be black, which stands for,Leave me alone, I’ll take my risks.It’s blue. Martin wracks his brain, trying to remember what that stands for.Tim whistles softly. “Looks like I’m giving you the day off,” he tells Martin, thankfully without teasing. At Martin’s uncomprehending gaze, he elaborates: “Blue meansIf I show interest in you, go ahead and spend heat with me.”
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 41
Kudos: 604





	emergency contact

**Author's Note:**

> This came about because my qpp told me about a fuck-or-die AU where people had lists of people they could have sex with in an emergency, after I was discussing my ardent desire for a coffeeshop au reminiscent of gyzym's "I've got nothing to do today but smile".

It’s ten in the morning on Sunday, Jon hasn’t arrived yet, and Martin is starting to worry.

It’s none of his business. Just because Jon’s been arriving at the cafe every Sunday at nine AM like clockwork for the past eight weeks, as reliable as a cat scratching at the door, doesn’t mean Martin gets to be concerned. 

Maybe Jon’s sick, except that didn’t stop him from showing up on a random Tuesday evening. Jon has a lot of work, he explained to Martin, and his office building keeps what Jon calls unreasonable hours, open between eight AM and seven PM on weekdays. 

So Jon shows up frequently, armed with a laptop and a permanent scowl that only eases when he takes a sip of the tea Martin makes for him, and stays until Martin has to shoo him out. He didn’t use to order any food, despite sitting in the cafe for long hours, until Martin started putting sandwiches on his table and deducting them from his own pay. Then Jon started ordering them himself, possibly out of guilt.

That’s okay. Martin will leverage what he can to make Jon stop looking like a famine victim. 

Martin’s aware that his crush is stupid and futile, that he knows nothing about Jon beyond his workaholic tendencies and abysmal self-care. That doesn’t matter. They’re his feelings and he gets to have them.

Those feelings are just a tiny bit bothersome when Jon suddenly disappears without a trace.

* * *

It’s ten minutes to eleven when Jon stumbles in, his hair sticking up the way it does when Jon’s been pulling at it absent-mindedly. The dark circles under his eyes have reached epic proportions. Martin brews his tea - Earl Grey with milk - as soon as he sees Jon coming in, his own heart thudding with relief. He plates a croissant alongside it without waiting for Jon’s input: Jon’s hands are trembling. He needs sugar. 

He waits for Jon to set up his laptop before bringing him the food. For once, though, Jon does not immediately begin to work: he just sits at his usual table, staring vacantly in the air.

Martin leaves the food at the counter and goes to Jon. “Hey, how’s it going?” He’s depressingly aware of the high pitch of his voice, the nervous shaking of it. 

Jon blinks. He turns around to look at him. “Martin.” His voice is deeper than usual, gravelly, like he hadn’t slept or just woke up.

Knowing Jon, Martin suspects it’s the former. “Did you want to order anything?” He hesitates, then tacks on, “Is everything alright?” 

Jon shivers. “Cold.” 

“Oh, oh no.” Martin’s gaze darts around. “I’ll get you some hot tea to warm you up, shall I?”

Jon looks vaguely ill. He shakes his head. “I don’t feel so well,” he mumbles.

Before he can think, Martin leans close. He stops before actually doing anything as audacious as touching his wrist to Jon’s forehead to guess at his temperature, but only because he’s caught a whiff of how Jon smells.

He’d known Jon was an omega: not by scent, all Martin could learn from that was that Jon used enough suppressants to render an elephant docile. But Jon always wore his heat-alert bracelet. 

Not that Martin ever stared at it, or anything. He isn’t that rude. Probably it just says to call a partner anyway, or maybe an agency, like most omegas’ heat-alerts do. “Jon,” he says tentatively. “I think you’re in heat.” 

Jon’s eyes are glassy. “Cold,” he repeats. He turns around and plasters himself against Martin. 

Martin freezes. Jon is burning up against him, small and light, and he smells so good…

Martin slaps himself in the face to snap out of it. “Jon, do you need me to call anyone? Is there anyone who could get you home?”

Jon’s shoulders draw up. He doesn’t let go of Martin. “Dunwanna go home,” he mumbles. “‘S cold there.”

Even without the influence of hormones, the words are fit to break Martin’s heart. “You don’t mean that,” he says, trying to make both of them believe it. “It’s just heat talking.”

Jon looks up. His pupils are swollen, swallowing up the iris. “You should take me home.” He says it like it’s a revelation, like it’s the solution to a difficult problem. “And you should knot me.”

“Um,” Tim says, a little ways behind Martin, who nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Sorry! Sorry.” Martin tries to flail away, but Jon only clings harder, stubborn. 

“Not your fault.” Tim is honestly the best shift manager in the world. “Could you get a look at his bracelet?”

The bracelet is stainless steel with a colored gem. For most omegas it’s red, with the attendant phone number of their emergency heat contact engraved beside it. Martin expects Jon’s to be black, which stands for, _Leave me alone, I’ll take my risks._

It’s blue. Martin wracks his brain, trying to remember what that stands for.

Tim whistles softly. “Looks like I’m giving you the day off,” he tells Martin, thankfully without teasing. At Martin’s uncomprehending gaze, he elaborates: “Blue means _If I show interest in you, go ahead and spend heat with me._ ”

“Who on Earth uses that?” Martin demands. “That’s completely reckless! Why is that even an option?”

Tim shrugs. “Some people prefer it. Jon chose it when he was in his right mind.” He shrugs again. “Of course, you’re free to refuse.”

Martin’s heart hammers in his chest. Refuse? Spending heats alone carries a small but not insignificant risk for aneurysms and heart failures. It’s increased if a person had spent a long time on powerful suppressants, or suffers from long-term sleep deprivation, or isn’t in good health generally. 

Tim’s gaze sharpens. “I mean it. You’re not his keeper. If you’d rather not, we’re sending him home.”

Martin’s not Jon’s keeper, no. But neither can he say he doesn’t want to. In a small voice, he says, “I think I’ll be taking the day off.”

Tim nods. To Martin’s gratitude, he refrains from making any lewd gestures. “Good luck.”

* * *

This isn’t the first time Martin’s attended a heat. It’s about his third, which is enough experience that he doesn’t freak out calling for a scent-proof taxi. 

Jon clings to him for the entire way. Martin wears single-use nose plugs from the cafe’s first aid kit until they reach his flat. He can’t afford to lose his composure.

Then they’re there, and Martin needs to figure out what’s next. “I should have enough food for after,” he rambles as he paces through his living room. “Or we could order pizza! I have, um, the safety precautions--”

He’s cut off by Jon making a low, discontent noise, and clutching at his stomach. Feeling sick. Right. “Have you drank any water today?” At Jon’s head shake, Martin hurries to the kitchen. Jon’s tiny, miserable noises accompany him every step of the way, and then he’s back with a glass full of tap water, watching anxiously as Jon drinks. 

Jon’s hands are too unsteady to hold the glass, so Martin does it for him, carefully supporting the back of Jon’s head with his other hand, watchful that Jon doesn’t choke. “There you go,” Martin says softly. “There you go.” It steadies something in him. 

When the glass is empty, and Jon shakes his head to the offer of more, Martin sets the glass down and takes out the nose plugs.

Jon’s scent isn’t like an attack. It’s mellow, almost, present without being overwhelming. It slowly infiltrates Martin’s senses, like sunshine peeking through curtains.

“Let’s get you sorted out,” Martin says, deeper than his usual register. He scoops Jon up and takes him to bed, Jon clinging to him weakly as he walks. 

Jon’s clothes are simple enough to take off. There aren’t nearly as many of them as there should be. It might not just be his heat prompting Jon’s complaints of being cold. Martin draws a blanket over both of them as he strips Jon bare and then himself. 

Pressing Jon to him, skin to skin, feels unbearably right, the heat of Jon’s skin sinking into him. Jon seeks to burrow even closer, making noises that sound contented and frustrated at the same time. He lets Martin tilt his chin up for a kiss, and opens his mouth quite eagerly to let Martin drink him in. 

Jon’s bony all over, full of sharp angles, and Martin traces his hands over every part of him that he can reach. Jon flinches at attempts to touch his chest or belly, so Martin stays away from those, but melts when Martin slides fingers through his hair. 

His cock is hard and red, and he squeaks when Martin takes it in his mouth. He’s deliciously wet, open enough for Martin to fuck him easily with his tongue, and it drives Martin a little bit insane. 

It takes only a few minutes for Jon to tug at his hair, legs clenching on either side of Martin’s head, wet gushing out of him. Martin groans and laps it up, drunk on Jon’s arousal, the scent and taste of him. He follows it down to lick Jon in his other hole, small and tight, and Jon shouts and shoves himself in Martin’s face. 

Soon he makes Jon come again, tongue in his front and a finger slicked with Jon’s wet in the back. Jon thrashes with a high, needy sound. 

“Here,” Jon rasps out after the second orgasm. “Come here. Let me feel you.” The words come out with obvious effort. Martin crawls up the bed, nuzzling Jon’s neck, careful not to put too much weight on top of him. Jon wraps his legs around Martin’s waist.

“Oh,” Martin says weakly, pushing inside Jon. He’d been doing his best not to think about his own aching arousal, desperate for this sweet clutch of Jon’s muscles. He marshals every ounce of strength he has left to stay gentle.

"Harder,” Jon hisses, fingernails raking down Martin’s back, and maybe Martin loses it a little bit.

The next thing he knows he's buried inside Jon to the hilt, grabbing his hips hard enough to bruise. He lets go in a hurry, but Jon only bucks up and demands, "Harder,” again.

“Fuck,” Martin pants, and really puts his back into it, pulling out and shoving back deep inside Jon, thrusting with more enthusiasm than artfulness. 

Jon doesn't seem to mind. He keeps scratching Martin, growling if Martin tries to slow down or ease his grip. The trails his fingernails leave burn, driving Martin steadily mad with want. "What do you want, sweetheart?" Martin forces out, a plea. "What can I give you?"

"Deeper," Jon begs. "More."

So Martin takes a deep breath and resituates them with him knelt in front of Jon, hoists Jon's pelvis halfway into his lap, holds Jon's leg up and _shoves_.

It stuns Jon silent for all of ten seconds, long enough that Martin worries he'd hurt him, before Jon starts shaking and clenching, shouting as he fucks himself into another orgasm on Martin's cock. 

That's about as much as Martin can take. He's only human. His knot swells and catches, stretching Jon until he desperately whines. 

With the last shred of his sanity, Martin whispers, "Are you alright?"

Jon swallows and nods. "It's so much." His voice wobbles. "Good. Need it."

"Take what you need," Martin urges him. "Anything, everything. It's yours." 

Jon frowns. He shifts and clings tighter, ruthlessly milking Martin's cock. 

On impulse, Martin kisses the little furrow in his brow. He's still coming, so intense it hurts, but putting his mouth on Jon's skin, his face especially, soothes something in him, some need that lodges deeper than biology. 

They lie together in sated stupor for all of ten minutes before Jon starts squirming, restless. 

"Sorry," Martin says, "we're going to be tied together for another twenty minutes at least."

Jon wriggles. The things the movement does to Martin's cock cannot be described. "I need to," he says, hoarse. "Again. Please?"

Martin would do just about anything for Jon right now. "Here, I'll try..." He squirms, reaching between them to rub Jon's cock. 

Jon sighs in contentment, but in less than a minute he's panting and asking for more. 

Tentative, Martin puts his hand on Jon's arse, emboldened as Jon bucks into the touch. "Here?"

"Yes, yes, just get on with it!"

Martin laughs voicelessly. He doesn't have the breath for a proper chuckle. He slicks his fingers in the wet mess between them and pushes one into Jon, slowly.

"Faster," Jon snaps, so Martin thrusts it in and out. "More."

But Jon is worryingly tight. "I don't know," Martin says, fucking him in an even rhythm, Jon still split open on his knot. 

"I can take it."

Martin doesn't know where he finds the authority to say, "And you can wait another minute to get stretched. I won't hurt you." He'd do anything for Jon, but not that. 

Jon whines and pouts but he accepts it, shivers and clings to Martin for the slow uphill climb to his next orgasm. "Now?" He says, plaintively, after.

"Yes," Martin says, and gives him another finger. 

Jon's next climax comes rather quicker, clenching hard around Martin's oversensitive cock. Martin grits his teeth and keeps fucking Jon, long deep thrusts from his fingers and little shallow bobbing motions from his knotted cock. 

Finally Jon goes limp, a relaxed, wrecked mess. Martin holds him until his knot softens enough to pull apart, enduring the painful arousal of seeing Jon red and open, Martin's come leaking out of him. 

Martin's bed is going to smell like Jon for weeks. He can't say right now whether that sounds wonderful or torturous. He settles for forcing himself up to find a washcloth to clean them both with so that Jon can rest well before the next round.

* * *

In the short lulls between bouts of rutting, Martin tries his best to keep Jon hydrated and wrapped up in blankets. Jon stops complaining about the cold, content to burrow in the makeshift nest close to Martin.

It makes his heart ache, but it’s a good ache, like exercising a muscle that hadn’t seen use in a good while. When Jon leaves, he’ll at least have the memory.

* * *

It’s evening, and Martin is running his hand over Jon’s side. His ribs are too prominent. Martin hopes that, when and if Jon finds an alpha, it’ll be one who makes sure he eats. 

Jon blinks up at him, eyes clearing. “Martin?” He looks around him, disorientated. “What… what?”

Well. That had to happen somehow. “You were in heat.” The words come out haltingly, Martin suddenly seized by terror that he’d misread Jon’s bracelet somehow. “Your heat-alert--”

“Oh, yes, obviously,” Jon says. He curls up on himself. Martin, cursing himself for his slow reactions, withdraws his hand. “I’m terribly sorry for the imposition.”

“For the…” Martin echoes. “I’m sorry, what?”

Jon’s jaw sets. “You’ve been exceedingly kind to me,” he says. “And I have taken advantage quite enough.” He starts to get up, only to collapse back into the sheets. “As soon as I can walk,” he amends, glaring at himself. 

“You don’t have to leave,” Martin says inanely. 

“I very much appreciate your forbearance, but there is a limit to how much of a bother I can be and I’m afraid I passed that nine hours ago.”

Martin swallows. “You don’t ever have to leave,” he says, small and soft. “I wish you never would.” He also wishes, as soon as the words come out of his mouth, that he could take them back. Jon doesn’t need Martin’s clinginess on top of everything. 

Jon stares at him. “I have to go to work,” he croaks eventually.

Martin has never hated Jon’s work as much as he does this moment, and that’s a pretty steep competition. “I know. But you could go and come back.” What is he saying? What on Earth is wrong with him?

Jon’s expression is unreadable. Just as Martin is sure Jon will say something cutting, he instead shuffles closer, back into Martin’s embrace. “I could?” He sounds so hopeful Martin doesn’t see how anyone could refuse him.

“Anything you want,” Martin says. “Except hurting you. I think we discussed that.”

Jon has a calculating frown on, an endearing expression. Or maybe Martin’s just besotted. “You said that, earlier. I thought it was heat talking.”

“Well, it wasn’t.” Martin can’t quite cross his arms with Jon inside them. Just as well. “Speaking of heat talking - a blue gem? What were you thinking?”

Jon’s quiet for long enough that Martin regrets asking the question, but then he says, “Even in heat, I am not generally responsive. Most alphas leave me cold. But.” He swallows.

“But?” Martin gently prompts when Jon takes a while to continue. 

“I felt safe around you,” Jon says, barely audible. “I’d had a black gem, before, but I thought… I don’t know what I thought. It was stupid.”

Martin lets out a long, ragged breath. “Hey,” he says. “It seems like both of us are happy with where we are?” In reply, Jon burrows deeper into the hug. “Right. So all’s well that ends well, I guess?”

“I can change it,” Jon mumbles. “To red. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

Martin almost asks what number Jon means to put on it when the request clicks. “Oh.” He blinks quickly, forcibly. If he starts crying now, there’s no knowing what Jon will do. “I’d be honored.”

“Yes, what an honor, to cater to my whims and take care of me while I’m barely coherent,” Jon says dryly.

“That’s a pretty great honor, actually,” Martin says. “And does this mean you’ll let me feed you?”

He’s never heard Jon laugh before. He can feel the sound reverberate through his body as Jon lets out gasps of laughter. He’s never heard anything as sweet.


End file.
